Pedal to the Metal

I pulled into my parking spot at Tsali Recreation Area with a fair number of nerves in tow. The lot churned with vehicles bearing out-of-state plates, their owners tuning up the bikes they’d brought with them or filling small backpacks with trail provisions.

They, like me, were there as part of the Southern Mountain Bike Summit, being held in nearby Bryson City. But they, unlike me, were actually mountain bikers. 

Before that day, I’d been on a mountain bike exactly once in my life, and I didn’t even like it all that much. It was unsettling the way the seat pitched me slightly forward into handlebars that vibrated and rattled across uneven ground. I constantly felt like I was about to fly headfirst into the ether. Mountain biking, I concluded after that brief excursion years ago, was an unduly terrifying way to enjoy the outdoors. I’d since had no problem sticking to solid-ground activities, like hiking. 

But here I was, standing amid a crowd of 100 cyclists, dressed to ride with a snazzy borrowed bike strapped to my car. It was sunny and 70, a Friday, one of those pre-spring March days that is so lovely it just leaves you itching for leaf-out, unable to remain inside while the sun shines. The sunlight had intoxicated me to cover this mountain bike ride the only way possible—from a bicycle seat—for the newspaper where I work as a reporter. That decision landed this mountain biking novice amid a crowd of 100 people who love the sport enough that they’d taken time off work, driven hours, and paid for a hotel so they could spend a weekend hobnobbing with people who treasure it as much as they do. 

I was wondering what I’d gotten myself into. I began to ask around, hoping to determine which of these trails would be the least likely to result in death or maiming. 

That’s about when a voice rang out bidding all beginners to gather for a group ride. I laughed a bit inside when the leader announced that he’d be riding sweep, making sure nobody in the group lagged behind him. I wondered if he realized just how slow I was going to be. I also wondered if we were going to be riding one of the non-death-and-maiming trails. 

But when the talking stopped and the riding started, my mood quickly shifted from apprehension to blissful excitement. The wooded trail whooshed along beneath me, the tread smooth and wide and blessedly absent of giant rocks and drops. Dappled sunlight from between the bare branches above fell on my back, and the scent of a warm, dry forest floor filled my nostrils. This wasn’t hard or scary at all, I rejoiced. This was freedom. I could do this, and I would enjoy it. 

Unfortunately, that freeloading downhilling soon ended. 

Rocks appeared with increasing frequency, as did root-laden dips and a grueling series of uphills. I was sure it all looked tame to these avid mountain bikers sharing the trail with me, and that was fine for them. I, however, could choose to walk my bike over those more hair-raising sections. And I did—no shame. 

Before long, I found myself at the back of the pack. But that was OK. Turned out the guy riding sweep was gloriously patient and helpful, encouraging my struggles uphill and timid approaches to obstacles while dispensing numerous tips that a newbie like me needed to hear. Downshift before the uphill begins. Raise the seat to give more power to each pedal. And, by all means, come back later and ride again. 

None of that prevented me from having to pull off the trail a few times, panting like a dog while my heart slowed down its race. Certainly there were moments when I wondered if I was about to lose control, if that bike was seconds away from toppling, with me on it. But what I found myself thinking more than anything is that I now understand why people do this. 

Surrounding the trail and the sweat, and the feeling of unity between me and the bike and the air through which we shot, was everything else that I love—trees and sun and rhododendron thickets that made even this pre-spring adventure a green one. It was a good feeling. 

When the trailhead came back into view, I was glad, because water and rest had never been more in order. But I was also hopeful that this wouldn’t be just a one-time thing. Next time I showed up at the Tsali trailhead, I thought, excitement—not nervousness—would prevail.